Stable
by Thalaba
Summary: All was well? For who? Not everything wraps up neatly. A DracoxLuna post DH with canon, AU elements. Rated for mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So this is my first attempt at Draco/Luna. I have an idea of a story, where I want to take this pairing, the other pairings I want to write within it, and there's a mixture of canon and AU as pure canon is just impossible for me—for anyone who has read my other stories, you already know this LOL

I don't ask for reviews—chapters will be posted as I write them—but if you have an opinion I'd love to hear it :)

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**When I Grow Up I'll Be Stable**

Draco Malfoy's mother was a sterling woman. She had always been the marker used to judge feminine perfection—no matter how his teenage self would have viciously argued that fact—and throughout the years of calculating glances and stolen moments in secrets corners no other Hogwarts girl had ever come close to the incomparable strength and beauty that was Narcissa Malfoy. This fact was lost to the majority of Slytherin queens-in-training who saw the younger white haired misanthrope in terms of galleons and social status (not a youth embittered and betrayed by the love he knew his mother had once felt for his father, who in his own way tried to grasp for any warmth offered by dozens of faceless pureblood protégés) and thus went straight for the cock in hopes of finding marriage success instead of through the parlour where approval from the lovely matriarch would have done more to raise Draco's estimation than any skill in fellatio would.

After Lucius' death Narcissa had calmly and gracefully stepped in to oversee the returning accumulation of Malfoy interests—there was no other way for her to be of course, and by then Draco was not so naïve as to think she hadn't been running it all in some way to begin with. He excelled within their business holdings, more relieved than he would ever let on that seven years of wizarding schooling hadn't been for naught even with the tattooed reminder ever-present upon his forearm, and was only happy to ease his mother's burdens. She had spent a life-time under the thumb of one person or another, and, as he may have been headed down much the same road if it weren't for her, it lightened Draco's brooding spirit to see Narcissa in a state of luxury she had always been accustomed to but was only now able to enjoy. He—on the other hand—kept late hours, drank far more than was wise in one so young, and was still able to incite tremors of disquiet in the opposition. After all, the majority of Death Eater's had found a place in Azkaban, not in the exclusive upper circles of Gringott's human sharks. Technically Draco was beholden to someone else for that clemency but even years later he would have rather broken his wand than admit it.

At twenty-three Draco watched alongside his closest friend Pansy Parkinson, bemused, as their fellow Slytherin Blaise Zambini saddled himself with notorious fortune hunter and classmate Daphne Greengrass. Apparently the on-again-off-again pair hadn't been as careful as they thought and Blaise Junior was expected in less than six months. Being pureblood royalty, Narcissa, of course, was in attendance, and, after being nudged by Pansy, Draco was disturbed to find his mother in deep conversation with the younger perfectly coiffed, perfectly mannered Astoria Greengrass. It was a further surprise to stumble into his study—formerly Lucius'—sometime the next morning and find a dozen as of yet unseen photo albums crowding the solid oak desk. He sat in slightly pissed splendour, unable to fight the tears that came while thumbing through hundreds of moving images: his infant self held between two supremely smug parents—in fact Draco was represented in almost every stage of life; several of Narcissa and Lucius in their wedding robes, looking oh so young and elegant and possessive in their grip on each other; an ancient sepia toned picture of his adolescent mother and the aunts he had never known…well, until recently. Even in his inebriated state Draco received the message loud and clear that Narcissa believed he should marry. If she wanted it then he would deliver.

Pansy was out of the question; she laughed knowingly when he suggested it over after dinner drinks, a crimson fingernail trailing delicately through jet black tresses. They had played the part in Hogwarts, expected to be the next great Slytherin couple, going through the motions of touch and tug while ignoring each others other adventures and how it was embarrassing to press against a person you had known since childhood and considered a sibling more so than a lover. Her parent's deaths eliminated the majority of expectations concerning matrimony and Narcissa was pleased to claim a daughter which was perfectly fine with Draco. It was a relief to be free of artifice.

Astoria was attractive, a pureblood, had apparently enough intelligence—or acting talent—to hold a conversation with his mother; between his exhaustive work schedule and charitable events Draco had Blaise introduce them. A year later they were married, the third such celebration in a year that included Ronald and Hermione Weasley and Harry and Ginevra Potter. Pansy threw up for him.

While he could not have cared less that the blond Valkyrie wasn't a virgin—that would have been rather hypocritical as his had disappeared years ago, and, in fact, it took quite a bit of weight off his shoulders—Draco did nurse the distasteful suspicion that Blaise had had a turn in both Greengrass gardens. She preferred cat suits and vinyl and a closet full of other items that never allowed him to touch more than she believed necessary. Demanding in the extreme, which at first seemed exciting, different, the bedroom eventually became a jungle Draco had no intention of crossing. Whips, floggers, toys: Draco put his foot down immediately. He had no intention of being any woman's puppet, even one as cunning enough to become pregnant just at the point where an early divorce was swimming through his mind.

They had nothing in common besides lineage and acquaintances. Draco pushed himself harder at work. He took on more investment opportunities, more accounts, and was the first amongst his social circle to volunteer services in rescuing Marcus Flint from his frequent fits of brooding—a pathetic, sometimes dangerous, sight that required a sympathetic ear and enough of Ogden's finest to kill a hippogriff. Astoria had already ingratiated herself into Narcissa's life, attending various functions and magical events, and his mother was so completely besotted with the idea of grandchildren that she paid little attention to her only son's absences, after all Draco had always been a private child.

Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was born to parents who had little time for each other, a mother who had become inexplicably ignorant of what it meant to have a child and a grandmother at a complete loss for words at the truth of the situation. Astoria wouldn't hold Scorpius, wouldn't see him, and for all accounts acted as if she had not just spent five hours in hard labour. Draco, however, was struck dumb at the beauty that was his son and had to be escorted to the waiting room by a smiling Dr. Bell, explaining to deaf ears that the newborn would have to undergo certain tests before he would be able to leave.

Now it was Astoria's turn to be absent. The doctor's had kept her in St. Mungo's for observation but there was no medical reason for the wizards to detain the new mother for very long. She did not take that as a suggestion to return to Malfoy Manor and instead encouraged Daphne to accompany her on a Continental tour. Narcissa was scandalized but for the first time in two years Draco felt close to freedom again. He had been no happier within his marriage than he had been without it, but his priorities had now changed and Scorpius filled up something inside Draco that had been empty for so long. His son was his life now, the only one who mattered, and he would do whatever it took to ensure Scorpius' perfect bliss.

It never occurred to him to factor a real mother into that equation.

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Luna had never imagined marriage while growing up in her cluttered home near Ottery St. Catchpole. Most little girls had dreams of long white dresses, silk embroidered and covered with pearls, of flowers and rings and excited well-wishers. Eventually there would be a groom—though this part usually changed more often than the dress—who would be the epitome of teenaged male perfection and willingly carry out whatever orders the blushing bride made for the rest of their incredibly happy lives. The idea had never really crossed Luna's mind.

Marriage, getting married, had always seemed fake to the thoughtful Ravenclaw, as if people needed an extravagant display of confections and badly dressed female friends to explain their love for one another. Luna believed she knew love. Xenophilius Lovegood was the best father any child could ever hope to have; Luna had never once been in doubt of his love for her or hers for him. There was a sense of safety amidst the newspaper ink and herb gardens, an encouragement to live and learn and love herself without the haze of enforced conformity that seemed to cloud the eyes of others of her acquaintance. (It never surprised Luna that the Nargle infestations went untreated.) As she grew older and discovered friendship Luna saw that there were different types of love. It was a building in the chest and stomach, physical sensations that thoroughly informed Luna—in case she hadn't verbalized it to herself—that she would fight and care for certain people for the rest of her life. The most glorious light filled her when she realized these people would do the same for her. Again, age brought other sensations as well, taken care of in the middle of the night with images of friends running through her head, of impossibly soft touches and open mouths. But this was something Luna kept to herself; she quickly realized through observation that for some reason people became easily embarrassed about such human matters. Akin to love but far removed from what she shared with her father, when the War was over Luna briefly thought about telling Neville about her dreams, about his hands covered with earth and moving through her hair, but the poor young man was recovering and enjoying the attentions of one Hannah Abbott and would probably not appreciate Luna's description of his imagined proficiency in front of his admirers at St. Mungo's.

It was a new world—or so everyone kept saying—so, after finishing her Seventh year and equipped with what she knew of love, magic, and five special editions of _The Quibbler_, Luna set out to see the newness and bring the old to the masses. After all, hardly anyone had even heard of moon frogs or wrackspurts let alone _seen_ them. She had a lot of work to do. Places to go, people to meet, plimpies to discover. And to travel alone had to be one of the greatest pleasures known to woman-kind. She and Xeno had made many summer expeditions over the years, (as well as Yule, spring, weekend), enjoying each other's company and natural conversation and silences, secure in their trust as only parent and child can be. But as she aged Luna couldn't help but feel that the mentor/learner dynamic of their relationship was a tad stifling. It would sometimes raise conflicted feelings of guilt, especially after the Bad Time, but Luna was not to be dissuaded.

The world was her own. Each choice was hers alone to make, each path her own to follow. Luna preferred to sleep under the stars in her mother's old tent than seek shelter within the numerous Muggle hostels or Wizarding bed and breakfasts, the dated but familiar couch and quilts a perfect accompaniment for the next stage of her life—a bridge between childhood and beyond. She lived for three whole years in Switzerland surrounded by mountains of snow and cliffs of insanity, chatting up infrequent hikers and curly-horned goats, receiving subtle help from tree dwelling rodents on where to find the tastiest nuts and other forest fare when canned provisions and salted meat became tired. The blond would spend hours sketching: gnarled tree limbs, bulbous sap pouches, spindly branches reaching out of frozen drifts like Baba Yaga fingers from greenish depths, towering spruce proud on the back of God. She had learned a simple efficient form of the art from observing Dean Thomas during their time at Shell Cottage where the beautiful young man created life on paper, which—as someone in love with life—Luna respected immensely. He had stunning cheekbones.

It was interesting to watch herself change; not having anyone as a permanent travelling partner, if she wanted to observe humanity for any great length of time Luna could only look at herself: new lean muscle in her arms, stretched stronger legs, achy feet, longer wispy hair. Of course she could hike down to civilization—and tried to do so bi-weekly—to speak to the lovely couple who ran a small general store and send letters off to Daddy and Ginny, pick up packages from the same, smile at the yodeling boys who noticed her growing chest. There were always pictures coming from England, but for a woman who had never imagined her own wedding, never thought of that supposed groom on her arm, Luna cried herself to sleep after seeing Ginny Weasley's marriage photo.

It wasn't that she begrudged her friend the happiness or had ever wanted Harry Potter to look at _her_ the way he was looking at Ginny within the moving photograph. At that moment, on that evening, in that small corner of the world, Luna Lovegood wanted _someone_ to look at her like she was everything, like she was the very definition of what love meant.

Change was needed as perfect solitude had been experienced and noted as slightly disagreeable to the former Ravenclaws state of mind. Mongolia was next, the blond finding a home with a close knit nomadic wizarding community who celebrated with dance and song and impromptu wrestling matches. They expressed a suspicious wariness over her moon eyes and Westerner fashion, but Luna's soft speech and gentle—if eccentric—nature, especially with the community's young children, eventually won them over, so much so that the end of her personally allotted five months of research she had to decline two soft-bellied sheep from a handsome second son who had wanted her to become a permanent fixture of their small tribe.

Australia, Fiji, Thailand, Singapore: Luna pinked in the South Pacific sun, dragged her pale feet through golden sands, offered Nargle suppressant advice to bartenders and market street vendors alike, and accumulated an impressive collection of dangly earrings and butterbeer corks in her wake. (Stuffed koalas, shells, and postcards were gathered and mailed off once news came that little Albus Severus had entered the world. She thought that was a rather heavy name for such a small being to carry, but Ginny and Harry would never let him fall behind.) Hawaii was utterly bewildering and enchanting: fire eaters and roasted pigs and grass skirts rustling to the steady slap of turquoise waters—sisterhood ran deep amongst the deliciously curved women and Luna took another long spell, living beneath the shade of a crowded volcano and learning to hula. Her hips couldn't really take it but the lei's were fun all the same and so were the kisses received from one dark-eyed singer. He stayed with her in that tent under the sun, beside the volcano, for two weeks. He wasn't embarrassed when she complimented his talented hands.

South America came out of the blue.

She had been waiting for her luggage in Los Angeles—the designated international portkey arena backlogged in the extreme—questioning whether or not a trip to Yellowknife would actually produce credible results, when a quarrel about blobber worms and basilisk larvae caught her attention. There was a beefy older man with salt and pepper handlebar moustaches and a beige beret top his bald pate chatting with a group of much younger backpacked men and women, but it was clear from their body language that he was not the focal point of said ensemble.

"All I said old boy was if one could be caught at an early stage there _could be_ a possibility of—"

"It's a moot point Richard, seeing as no one has recorded a living basilisk in over two hundred years." Titters of laughter surrounded the smooth speaking mountain man, not a hair out of place on his chestnut head. He stood a foot above his counterparts, covered in pristine khaki and unspoken accolades, but as Luna neared, a still-serene smile on her face, she decided he would be more at home in formal robes, behind glass trays and labelled insects. "How many times to I have to tell you? They don't exist."

"You're wrong."

Seven pairs of eyes turned to stare incredulously at the slip of a woman who dared contradict the esteemed naturalist. His mouth quirked and Luna tilted her head.

"And who might you be little girl?"

"Luna Lovegood. And who might you be old boy?" The elderly man chortled as the whispers started.

"Rolf. Rolf Scamander."

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_"Luna!" Ginny's voice was frantic between erratic puffed breaths, her knitted vest stretched across swollen breasts and green sundress spotted with labour sweat. She held the blonds hand in a desperate grip as the emergency healers piled in through her front door. Harry wasn't there. Harry wasn't going to see the birth of his daughter. Where the bloody hell was Harry?? She watched her wide-eyed friend with surprise; Luna's stomach was larger than her own though her former schoolmate carried the pregnancy weight wonderfully and where the bloody hell was Harry?? _

_"I'm here Ginny," the woman responded gently, returning the squeezed pressure to Ginny's hand. The redhead nodded vigorously, shooting a quick scathing glare at one paramedic who attempted to push Luna out of the way. "You're here? Don't leave me alone Luna! I don't know where Harry is!"_

_Luna smiled, thankful for the long sleeves that covered her bruised arms._

_"I'm here Ginny. Right now I'm not going anywhere."_


	2. Chapter 2

He crumpled the crisp, rose-scented letter inside the rough grip of his fist, then watched as the beige paper met the same end

He crumpled the crisp, rose-scented letter inside the rough grip of his fist, then watched as the beige paper met the same end as the matching envelope before it within the fiery embrace of his study's iron grate. Draco fought the urge to wipe his palm across the expensive fabric of his jacket, not wanting any inkling of _her_ presence to remain upon his person but disgusted with himself for being unable to stand her taint. He was irritated; he was angry. He should feel nothing. It wasn't as if this was an improbability—avoidance was Astoria's stock in trade—but to out and out refuse her son's wish for a Yuletide family congregation, to coquettishly reply that she wouldn't dare think of leaving her business in the Caribbean until well after the New Year, was almost more than Draco could stomach. Salazar forbid she deign to allow her son's attendance in her midday salon!

Fruitless. Scorpius was coming home today and Draco was left to deliver the extent of his ex-wife's selfishness.

It had been…difficult raising a son on his own. No. It had been difficult delegating daytime tasks to his mother and house elves while continuing a fulltime job and doing all he could to nurture a being that seemed to be his heart personified. Draco could not survive without his son, had been disturbingly thankful when Astoria had not returned to reclaim the small lump of flesh she'd abandoned at birth, but the years hadn't been easy as that first day would have let him believe. Lucius hadn't been the embodiment of fatherhood and Draco had walked a fine line between spoiling his only child rotten and becoming the domineering parent he himself had lived under. He could admit—at least to himself—that he hadn't always been successful. Emotional commitments were hard and Draco was naturally withdrawn. Aunt Pansy was there for birthday parties and childhood outings, Grandmother Malfoy for shopping trips and awkward extended family gatherings; Draco made money and hugged his son and made sure no one he called his hungered for anything.

Sharp heels on wood announced his mother's return from King's Cross and Draco shook his head, releasing the curl his lip had naturally taken after years of practice and unwelcome thoughts.

"I believe it may snow tonight dear," Narcissa drawled as Draco turned away from the fire, leaning to receive a kiss on the cheek. "You should remind the elves about preparing the grounds."

"Of course Mother," Draco gave a courteous nod and lifted his glass off the mantle, taking the last mouthful of brandy before following Narcissa into the cavernous hallway towards the dining room. Not for the first time did he thank whichever ancestor responsible that said walls were free of the sneering, pointed looks and useless incessant babble prerequisite in portraiture in those of Malfoy lineage. As far as he knew the Black side wasn't any better. "And where is Scorpius?"

"Unpacking."

Draco regarded Narcissa with a raised white eyebrow. That was rather too succinct to be believed, and when did his son ever _unpack_? Unpacking was left to Hinny or the other _paid_ elves while Scorpius flew hell-bent to fury around the grounds on his top of the line Nimbus, crying freedom after so long away from home. Or the boy would automatically search for Draco, wishing to regale his father with tales of the past school term and his ultimate successes inside and out of the classroom. Unpacking? Scorpius may as well have been voluntarily researching Muggle royalty.

"What's wrong with my son Mother?"

The dining table was set for the expected three, dishes at the ready, ancient silverware finely polished, heirloom china and goblets, glowing floating tapers: if Scorpius was upset it all may as well have been ash inside Draco's mouth.

"There's no need for dramatics Draco," Narcissa gave her grown child a somewhat knowing look, plucking her ruffled silk sleeves before seating herself gracefully onto the velvet lined hardwood chair which Draco pulled out. "My grandson is perfectly healthy." She laid one ironed napkin on her lap and brought a goblet of red wine to her perfect lips. "A perfectly healthy soon-to-be adolescent complete with all those lovely emotions we've come to associate with that particular period of life." Draco looked at his Mother blankly. There could be only be two reasons for Scorpius hiding himself away and he would rather face another hippogriff than mention the first to Narcissa Malfoy nee Black.

"Are you saying that Scorpius is in love?"

"An infatuation darling, nothing more. I'm positive you had at least one of those before our dear Pansy caught your eye. There was a certain brightness in his eyes and yet…a reluctance to leave the train."

Narcissa had never been privy to the often gut wrenching fear her son had lived in of ever putting a foot out of line with his Father, even in terms of relationships, so he was definitely not about to start a conversation of how there had never been a 'before Pansy.' Draco's jaw stiffened as he reached for his fork, any interest in the meal already lost while he pondered these new turn of events. Twelve years old. Scorpius was twelve years old. _Do what I say, not as I do_. Oh…Fuck. Draco did not want to deal with a hormonal teenager. Mothers dealt with it. Grandfathers were supposed to laugh and relate personal exploits with the fairer sex. Fathers just got in the way.

"May I hazard to guess that you know who the little gold digger is?"

"Draco!" Narcissa exclaimed with a smile, astonished. "What gold is there to dig these days?" There was no bitterness in the jibe and Draco returned her smile grudgingly. "Scorpius is more like you than you think and would _you_ have ever shared those sorts of secrets with me?" Draco didn't dignify that with a response. They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the clink of forks and knives, the gurgle of drinks being refilled. It was obvious Narcissa was preparing something though and Draco had the fortitude not to sigh once she was finished.

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Teddy Lupin—for good or ill—had always treated Scorpius like a lost little brother of the ever growing Potter-Weasley clan, and, however Draco may have felt about the nineteen year old shape shifter at one point in his life, the lad had been more than decent to Scorpius over the years and had been mostly always welcome inside Malfoy Manor. It annoyed Draco to no end the tendrils of jealousy he would sometimes feel when Scorpius would look with large impressed eyes at the older boy; worse when his young voice would fill with wonder at whatever antic Lupin was currently demonstrating—Well Draco _had_ taught Scorpius to fly hadn't he? and been partly responsible for his very existence. Sons were supposed to view their fathers as gods weren't they?!

Draco shook his head and drank his coffee, watching as the adolescent wolfed down another sandwich and nodded to Hinny to keep the stew coming, saw him reach for more fruit. Little wonder the boy called several places home; no one kitchen could keep him fed. No…hero worship was a lesson in futility. Parents were human and therefore imperfect creatures; Draco hoped to never see that humiliating look of desperate adoration on his own child's face.

"This melon is brilliant!"

"Cantaloupe," Draco replied dryly, resisting the urge to suggest the boy find a bib. Just in case. "Does Scorpius ever plan on coming downstairs?" There was a laugh from the opposite end of the table and a shake of turquoise hair.

"Oh yea, he'll kick out of his funk sooner or later. I wouldn't worry about it."

There was a pause while Draco waited for Teddy to explain, instead seeing only the movement of spoon to bowl and a steady slurp. He grimaced. A funk? What the bloody hell did that mean?

"Is my son…upset about something? Something that perhaps happened at school?"

"What?" The boy looked up with a mouthful of soggy bread and Draco stopped himself from reaching for his wand at the following snort. "Nah mate, he just has a bit of an unattainable crush is all. Can't see her over hols so he's a little depressed, nothing traumatic."

"Unattainable?" Draco massaged the bridge of his nose, feeling his jaw tighten. There would be no living with Narcissa after this. How she would gloat to be proven correct.

"Well not like that Draco, c'mon!" Teddy accepted a milk refill with a smile that Draco thought came too easily. "It's not like him and Rosie."

"Tell me what it is like then!" Draco nearly snapped, reining himself in before unneeded emotions could come to the forefront. He'd received another semi-ambiguous letter from Astoria that morning which had basically pushed aside his expressed concerns for their son, so even though this visit with Lupin had been planned Draco still wasn't in the mood to force civility. "He practically locks himself in his room. He won't talk to me, won't let me fix what's going on and—Ro—Rosie?" Draco stopped, lip beginning to curl and icy eyes flashing. "Not that Weasley chit?"

Teddy covered his mouth in time, milk dribbling between his fingers as he swallowed his laughter.

"Aunt Cissa!" he beamed, wiping his mouth to reveal a shit-eating grin. "Didn't think I'd see you this time 'round." Draco watched as his incredibly sophisticated mother delicately laid a pristine napkin near the boy's plate before seating herself in the chair next to him. Always the consummate hostess.

"We were delighted when you agreed to come visit with Scorpius," she placed her own napkin over the slope of burgundy coloured robes, choosing select fruit slices for a plate that had suddenly popped onto the table. While they _were_ paid, the elves knew the Mistress preferred her help to be neither seen nor heard. "Now what was that about Rose Weasley?"

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_"Where have you been Luna? We haven't had word since Bolivia and that was what, three years ago?" Harry wasn't really paying one hundred percent of his attention to his long-lost friend, his bright green gaze moving in an incensed pattern from Luna's belly to the floor to Ginny's hospital room and back again. His face was red, knuckles white, as he cursed himself for a fool, almost missing the birth of his daughter for following up on what was obviously a prank gone sour for the Ministry. _

_"Two actually," she smiled gently, resting her folded hands over her large belly and what Harry considered a completely uncharacteristic animals hair dress. It was off-white, somewhat orange in spots, but covered Luna from wrist to neck to ankle, in fact Harry was sure he had never seen the former Ravenclaw in so much non-layered clothing before. Then there was the matter that Luna Lovegood was very clearly pregnant and probably ready to pop at any given moment which was not reassuring in the least, as, being a man and with a wife already in labour, Harry only had enough strength to deal with one pregnant woman at a time. Why the fuck was it taking so long? James and Albus Severus couldn't have been more than a few minutes by his reckoning. "I've been in Chile and Argentina and then there was the research tour of Brazil. I still haven't found a reliable Owlery you see…"_

_She was trailing off which was also unheard of in Luna who had always stated her opinions or thoughts without care of derision, but Harry could only nod vaguely, a nervous crease forming between his dark eyebrows as Katie Bell emerged from the delivery room. _

_"Both you girls are perfectly fine Harry," the healer grinned, slipping off her mask, "so take that look off your face! There aren't any Dementors here!" Harry visibly relaxed, letting out a deep breath and dropping his burdened shoulders. _

_"So I can see them now?" He sounded like that little eleven year old again, stepping out onto a quidditch pitch for the first time, utterly excited and completely scared out of his wits. Would he find a happily exhausted Ginny waiting for him behind those doors—like after James' arrival—or would he find a banshee, swearing to never let Harry put his 'grimy paws' on her again—like after their second son's birth? There was a noise behind him and Harry quickly turned back to Luna, offering her a hand once he realized the woman was trying to stand and he could snap back to the fact that the usually lighter than air blond had been the one to bring his wife to St. Mungo's. "Want to come in too Luna? I know Ginny will want to see you and—"_

_"Oh no that's alright Harry," the shorter woman shook her head, Harry almost frowning at the overly happy expression on her face while her eyes spoke of something different. "I can't stay long and Daddy's expecting me so congratulations," she hugged him as much as her girth would allow, Harry glad she couldn't see his look of surprise as he noticed her girth _was_ all belly, her arms as skinny as ever. Had she really been traipsing through jungles in her condition? Where was the father, or was he even in Luna's life now? _

_"Do you need any help Apparating?" Dr. Bell piped up. "I wouldn't suggest using a Floo at this point."_

_"No that's fine," Luna was backing up but Harry squeezed her hand. He wasn't an Auror for nothing nor was he stupid and while he had a newborn child to see and a wife to comfort he wanted to make sure their friend was fit for travel. _

_"Are you okay Luna?" he pushed up his skewed glasses. "You don't seem…happy, yourself." She pulled his had down, placing his palm over the large bulge of her stomach._

_"I'm going to be a mother Harry. There are two little lives growing inside me."_

_Harry's eyes widened at the revelation of twins and he could only nod as she walked away. But he hadn't failed to notice that Luna hadn't answered his question._

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**A/N:** Thanks to those who reviewed the first chapter, it was unexpected but appreciated. As my brain is filled with mush I can't remember if I replied to you indivually so I'll thank all of you here and now :)


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